Framed
by KHwhitelion
Summary: He swears he didn't do it. Swears on her grave. Yet they lock him up anyway. Well, Francis won't stand for it. He wants out. But when the world dubs you an unstable killer, is there anyone left you can turn to for help?
1. Present day: situation

**Hi everyone! KHwhitelion here! Welcome to the first chapter of this story.**

**Now, as many of you know, I tend to stay away from multi-chapter fics, as I have a terrible problem with updating XD however, THIS story is different. Why? Because the darn thing came to me in a dream—no joke! Granted, it's been altered to fit in the canon universe, but most of what you're going to read was based on events that happened in my subconsciousness. To these characters. Of this show.**

**Of course, this chapter may not make a lot of sense, but I promise you, the following chapters WILL!**

**Oh, and I KNOW the story title is the same as that Three Days Grace song, but I couldn't for the life of me think of a title and that song fits the situation of this story.**

**Okay, I'm probably boring you now….so enjoy this story!**

He was running.

Where? He didn't know. His brain had ceased functioning hours ago. At least, it _seemed_ like hours; truth be told, he really had no idea just _how_ long he'd been on the road. Somewhere along the way, the sun had risen and set several times—it was dark _now_—but he'd long since lost count.

It didn't matter anyway; he couldn't stop, no matter how much he may have wanted….or was it _needed_ at this point? He certainly remembered something about a sprained ankle…wrist….which was it again? Or was the pain simply due to his lack of nourishment? Could have been one—could have been all. He'd stopped feeling anything other than the drive to move since he first got out of there.

Successfully, anyway.

He would have laughed, had his throat not been clogged with dryness rivaling even the vastest of deserts. Oh how they had underestimated him. Thinking he'd learned from experience—ha! The only thing he'd learned in his failed attempts was how _not_ to escape; testing the limits of not only his own body but the eyes and ears of the personnel themselves.

Turns out, he'd been right all along. The old dogs just simply couldn't handle his new tricks.

Forget what others may have said—_he_ was the _true_ artist of his family….

Yes….they _were_ his family, weren't they? Once upon a time at least.

Now….well, circumstances spoke for themselves.

And he knew where he _wasn't_ running: _home_. Lost the taste to call it that the moment they locked him up.

Which begged the question of his true destination….if he even _had_ one. Most people knew his face...his name…..knew the lies woven around him. He'd be reported….or shot….before he'd even make it up their driveways.

But that didn't surprise him; he'd been exposed to the cruelty called 'The World' from the moment he was old enough to process thought. What was it called….conformity? That seemed right—monkey see, monkey do...and all the other bull that came with nationwide peer pressure.

Wait, he was getting ahead of himself. 'Nationwide?' Surely he'd only traveled a _few_ states; not _everyone _would dial 9-1-1 should he appear on their doorstep. Only those foolish and blind believe everything the television told them.

That gave him what….about half the Country? Maybe less? He'd forgotten just how many of those lazy bastards called 'human beings' allowed that cursed two-faced box to morph them into oversized potatoes.

Oh how he wanted to be one of them right now.

To just sit back, prop his feet up and casually sip whatever beverage he chose; the only reason for anxiety being A) what next week's episode of whatever was going to be after such a huge cliffhanger of the previous program, or B) what his….wife….was preparing for dinner.

Yes….the ultimate euphoria for a typical man his age.

A pity he'd never been deemed 'typical.'

It was then the world suddenly lurched forward, sending him crashing into the very ground on which he ran. During the less than two-second plummet, he vaguely recalled his foot catching against a rock or branch or _something_ to trigger the fall, but at the present moment, it was of little importance. For, apart from the wind knocked out of his lungs, an onslaught of mind-numbing pain flooded his senses, rapidly replacing his previous adrenaline. Since he'd set out, he hadn't once stopped to properly catch his breath—unless crawling into the back of the occasional truck counted—and now, he was paying for it.

The hard way.

He couldn't move. Couldn't think. Hell….he could barely _breathe_. Every ounce of his body was screaming in agony; only making its severe overuse painfully more obvious to him. His joints were on fire; both wrists and left ankle swollen red; looks like he had _several_ sprains after all. At least it was better than the invisible daggers slicing his lungs every time his already stinging chest rose and fell. And there was that sharp throbbing against his skull.

He wanted to cry it hurt so much. Probably would have too, if he'd had any tears left to shed.

As it was, he just lay there for a while, gaping like a fish and trying with everything he had not to succumb to the pain.

He was wasting time, lying there like that. They'd find him if he didn't get up off his ass and _move_. Curling up and dying here and now wasn't an option—no matter how badly his body begged him. He'd come too far to just give up now.

To just let them _win_.

His eyes snapped open. No. He couldn't…._wouldn't_ let that happen. Those lying sons of bitches were _not_ going to take him back.

Even if that meant running until he dropped dead.

Biting his lip so hard it bled, he slowly, painfully, staggered to his knees, wincing at the twang in his shoulders and sore arms.

He was halfway there. Now came the tricky part.

Sucking in a breath—then cringing at the pain and abruptly exhaling—he raised one leg, then the other. His vision swerved, but he remained standing, blinking profusely until his surroundings came back into focus.

Face twisting into a grimace, he carefully lifted his left leg, grunting at the pull he felt in his muscles, before setting it down again, this time a few inches in front. Pausing until the pain dulled, he mimicked the motion with his other leg. He still had no idea where he was heading. But he'd get there: one achy step at a time.

Minutes….hours…._days_?...later, he saw it.

That faint, faint glimmer of human civilization. Literally: several yellow-white patches of light cut through the surrounding darkness like a kni—_razor blade_. Disoriented though he was, he knew in a second those glowing specks didn't belong to stars. For one thing, they were far too low in the sky—and were positioned in a very obscure and structured manner.

Secondly, the soft haze the little lights gave off illuminated what appeared to be some type of building; hence the reason for their unusual placement.

Ignoring the prickling hairs on his back, he forced himself onward. Humanity had proven itself a cruel, heartless bitch, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something….something different lay waiting beyond the walls of the—wooden?—building. Enough that he trusted that compelling feeling in his gut to pull him forward: rationality having exhausted itself during the meticulous journey.

There was an unmistakable sway in his step; dizziness nearly knocking him off his feet.

A pang of discomfort struck his stomach—one that _wasn't _physical—as his step gradually began to slow.

He'd almost reached his limit.

_Don't pass out!_ His mind—what was left of it—demanded, _Don't pass out! _He was right there; even through his hazy vision, the globs of light—windows, he realized—had grown in size, and the building in question had equally grown in detail—blurred detail, but detail nonetheless.

In truth, it almost looked….familiar? No….no….must be his waning consciousness fooling his eyes. He didn't have a death wish.

Yet….

He was so close now, it was though as he could reach out and touch it….

Ironically, one faulty step sent him face first into a glossy wooden surface with a loud _smack_.

_Ow._

Almost instantly, a chorus of….barking….exploded from the other side of said surface, along with angry shouting in a language he didn't understand.

A _familiar_ language he didn't understand.

He, however, would have to worry about that later, as purple spots were dancing before his eyes; the result of unplanned impact of flesh on wood, no doubt. _Don't pass out_….he reminded himself, raising a pale hand and forcing it into a frail fist.

He desperately wanted to knock—whether the unknown wood was a door or not—but past experiences held him back….

….who was he kidding? At this rate, he'd die anyway—might as well risk it.

On three.

_One_.He braced himself. Inside, the angry voice quieted.

_Two._ His hand inched its way forward. Said voice switched to English; joined by two others.

_Three._ His knees gave out. The door swung open.

"SCHEI!"

Once again, his face made contact with an unknown surface. Only this time….it was warm. Wrinkled. Moving.

"Was tun Sie?"

_Angry._ But….more importantly….

Blinking profusely to clear his blurred vision, he raised his head. "O-Otto?"

Silence.

"Francis?"

The broken, beaten man nodded, retaliating his former boss' shocked expression with a feeble smile.

"Vhat….vhate are you doing here?" The German man asked, obviously not believing who'd just fallen into him, "Und….vhat happened to you?"

Abruptly, his smile faded; both questions shaking him from his temporary relief. "I…." he croaked, attempting to straighten "I…."

That was the last thing out of Francis' mouth. He was too sore. Too tired. Too _weak_.

Head spinning, he lost his balance, succumbing to a world of darkness as he crashed to the floor.

**Like I said: confused? Stay tuned for the next chapter!**

**About the German: I got my definitions from an online translator, so forgive me if they aren't right. **

**Definitions: Schei (shit). Was tun Sie (what are you doing).**

**Hey Countrygrl: thanks for encouraging me to go ahead and write this XD Chapter one was fun, and I'm sure the others will be, too!**


	2. Present day: awakening

_Darkness: a cold, black, suffocating emptiness that threatened to swallow him whole. It was everywhere: left, right, up, down….no matter where he turned, that was all he saw. A vast black hole that had no horizon line to distinguish sky from ground. _

_As if he were floating._

_And yet, he knew he wasn't, as he could feel some sort of stable ground beneath his feet._

_He just wish he could see _what_ exactly it was he was standing on—much less _where_ he was. And how he got there._

_Swearing violently, he ran a hand through his sweat-stricken hair; surprised at how clearly visible his arm was, despite the surrounding blackness. _

_His chest tightened. That wasn't normal. Dark was dark. He shouldn't be able to see himse—_

"_SOMEONE HELP ME!"_

_He froze. That was _her_ voice. _

"_Piama!" He tried to scream, alarm rising when no actual sound came out of his mouth. Frantically, he whirled around, trying to locate the direction of the cry._

"_PLEASE! SOMEONE HELP!" It came again, this time bouncing off invisible walls as a horrible, heart wrenching echo. Overtaken by panic, he tried to answer her once more, to no avail._

_**Dammit Dammit Dammit!**_

_Heart wracking against his ribcage, he took off blindly, hoping that—where ever he was heading—she'd be there._

_Alone._

_Afraid._

Alive_._

_**Piama, no!**__ He screamed inwardly, eyes darting around frantically for any sign of her. _

"_NO….NO STOP! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"_

_The sweat already dotting his brow rolled down the sides of his face, breathing heavily the faster he ran. _

_**Hang on, Piama! **__He silently begged, cursing this….this void….for sucking away his voice, __**I'm coming!**__ Inhaling deeply, he proceeded to go into overdrive…._

…_.Only….his legs had become weighted….sluggish….bringing his previous sprint to a painstaking crawl. _

_**Dammit! **_

_Clenching his teeth, he tried everything in his power to break this unexplained phenomena, mind and body working against each other. Yet, the faster he ran, the slower he became; dragging his feet along the black surface beneath as if each were a ton of bricks. But he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. He had to—_

"_FRANCIIIIIS!"_

_Gravity let up on him then; the sheer impact of his returned speed nearly sent him toppling over._

_Just barely catching himself, he whirled around, heart pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears. That shriek….it was so shrill….so desperate….and so terror-driven it sent a chill shooting up his spine. And a knot twisting in his stomach._

_He was running out of time._

_Taking a deep breath to calm the jackhammer that was his heart, he raised his arm, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand….._

_But stopped the moment it reached his eye level._

_His voice returned; he let out a scream that would rival a banshee's._

_Blood. Cold, sticky, crimson, _blood _was trickling down his hands. Oozing through his fingers; staining his sleeves a sickening red. _

_He continued to shriek—jaw hung open and eyes bulged—as he tried to clean his hands; wiping the with the hem of his shirt._

_All that did was dye the fabric._

_Bile gathered in his throat. He couldn't get it off. He couldn't get the damn stuff off!_

"_Stop!" He shrieked, holding his hands in front of his face "S-STOP IT!" Lost in a horrified frenzy, he caught a glimpse of his up turned palms._

_And his heart stopped._

_Her face….her face was….it was right…._

"_NO!"_

_Curling his hands into fists, he shook them violently; head mimicking the action. _

"_THIS ISN'T MY FAULT! I DIDN'T DO IT!"_

_If he'd had a blade, he'd have cut off his hands by now out of sheer desperation to cease the bleeding._

_Because he'd figured out who it belonged to. _

_Swearing once more, he collapsed in a heap, squeezin his eyes shut in an effort to stop the images haunting his mind. He didn't do it. He was innocent—INNOCENT! He would never….the blood was on his hands but he'd….he'd…._

"_IT WASN'T MY FAULT!"_

With a jolt, Francis' eyes snapped open; chest heaving and body glistening with sweat. Gasping like a fish out of water, he clutched his chest, ignoring the twinge of pain in his muscles as he tried to calm his pounding heart.

It was….it was only a dream. Or nightmare, more appropriately, shivering at the images still plaguing his consciousness.

_Again._ He added dryly, releasing a steady breath as he lay back against the pillow.

Hang on.

'Pillow?'

Where the hell _was_ he?

_Okay….okay….stay calm, _he half assured, half ordered himself, blinking several times to adjust his vision to the brightness. He needed to think rationally about this: the last thing he need was another self-induced panic attack.

So, in no position to do much else, he began a visual observation of his surroundings.

First, and perhaps more importantly, it was _daylight_. He must have unknowingly fallen asleep the previous evening...right? It'd make sense. Judging by the barrier of embroidered pillows against his left side—but not his right—he couldn't have been lying on a bed.

So this was a sofa of sorts.

_Okay….that sounds about right,_ he thought, casting a glance to his right, _it'd explain that glass coffee table at least. And the wooden walls….and the television…._

Instantly, he sat up, eyes widening. There was a _TV_ here?

Screw thinking rationally.

If whoever it was who lived here watched the damned thing as much as his own….family….did….he need to get the hell out of this place as soon as—

"Francis! You lay back down zhis _instant_!"

Upon hearing his name, he flinched, gaze darting to the direction of the voice….and thrown for a loop to see a flustered, sixty year old German woman scurrying over to him, waving her pointer finger as if scolding a child.

_Not—_to his relief_—_a society-dubbed murderer.

"G….Gretchen?" He stammered, "What….is that y—"

"Don't try and change zhe subject! Lay down _right now_! You are in _no_ condition to be up and about!"

With a meek, "yes ma'am," Francis obeyed; previous anxiety dissipating slightly as he watched the older woman hover over him like his…._a_ mother would. _Of course,_ he thought, internally rolling his eyes, _how could I forget?_

"You gave us qvuite a scare." Gretchen went on, popping a thermometer in his mouth, "Passing out like zhat. I have never seen Otto so surprised in his life!" She chuckled, working around his head to fluff up the pillow, either oblivious to or ignoring the baffled look of the blond man's face.

So Otto _hadn't _thrown him out? That was surprising. Even more so was how….hospitable Gretchen was being. It wasn't that he grateful, but….

"Urmph…." He began, frowning at the mercury encasing object in his mouth, "noh tha Ih'm noh—" Gretchen, seeing his discomfort and seemingly satisfied with its reading, removed the thermometer "—grateful for all this….but…." He swallowed. "….why didn't you turn me away? I mean uh….I accidentally screwed you guys over….Otto said he'd sue—"

The older woman just shook her head, playfully tapping his shoulder. "You seelly seelly boy. Ve couldn't just leave you out zhere like zhat! You needed a doctor!"

His heart sank. "You….you c-called a _doctor_?"

Gretchen, clearly not understanding how critical an error she'd made, said simply, "Ve had to. After tventy-four hours of continuous sleep ve vere beginning to vorry you vere dead."

"Twe—twenty f-four hours?" Dammit! If Gretchen spoke the truth—and he gave her no reason not to—this was a very bad situation. An entire day was more than enough time for them to—

"Francis?"

"Huh?" he looked up, snapping from his thoughts….only to be greeted by his host's very intent wrinkled expression.

"Is zhere somesing vrong?"

Oh how he was starting to hate irony. "Why do you ask?" He spat back, perhaps more defensively than intended.

The German woman's eyes narrowed a fraction of an inch, but she shook it off, instead reaching for a washcloth sprawled across the coffee table. "Nozhing, nozhing…." She murmured, reaching towards him. He flinched, and Gretchen frowned.

Then reiterated the previous question.

"Are you _sure_ zhere is nozhing wrong? You look like you have seen a ghost!"

At the word ghost, he winced, images from his nightmare flashing before his eyes in cinematic fashion. "More like being haunted by one….." he muttered, resting his head and his hands.

Though Francis couldn't see her expression, he imagined her eyebrow shooting up so high it rivaled that of Star Trek's Mr. Spock.

He cringed, hoping the next four words out of her mouth would be anything but….

"Oh, you poor boy."

…._not_ that.

'_Poor' hardly justifies the situation…._his mind corrected, but he refrained from saying aloud, the sympathetic tap on his shoulder silencing his bitter tongue. Even if Gretchen couldn't possibly imagine the hell he'd been put through, it was….refreshing to receive such docile treatment. And from a former….

"Vhat happened to you?"

Temporarily anyway.

He remained silent, pretending he hadn't heard her. She was right: he was in no condition to be on the move. But if she somehow forced the truth from him….well, then he'd have no choice. And he really _would_ end up dead.

One way or another.

As it was, he was pretty sure his weakened state was the only thing keeping Otto from strangling him. Since he'd woken up, Francis hadn't seen hide or hair of the German man….and he was more than certain it wasn't coincidental. Their last encounter hadn't been a pretty one…..what with the ATM mix-up, a heated conversation—phone call included—and that whole 'law suit' thing….

"Vhat happened to you?"

The blond man jumped, years of practice pulling him away from her friendly grasp on his shoulder. "Nothing." He said quickly, before realizing his mistake. Didn't matter the age difference, Gretchen herself had been a mother….and had had a son who was very much like _him. _He didn't even have to look at her to know she didn't buy it for a second.

"Fraaaaancis….."

"Alright fine!" He cried, slamming his hands on his knees. "You wanna know what happened? I'll tell you!" Each phrase was like lead on his tongue; his mouth moving without his control as he prepared to unravel a very long, painful and complicated chain of events.

Sighing, he cast a glance at the television stationed against one of the walls. "Do you….do you and Otto watch TV r-regularly?"

She blinked, slightly surprised at what she thought was an unexpected question. "Um….no. Not regularly. Zhe only one who vatches zhat sing is Lillian, but she's usually—"

"Mom! I'm back!"

If Francis thought he couldn't possibly more surprised in a single day than he already was, life threw him for a loop yet again. Craning his neck, his eyes were greeted with a very unusual sight. A pale, teenage girl stood in the same doorway Gretchen had previously, stripping herself free of the jean jacket she wore while trying not to tangle the two leashes entwined around her wrist. She looked around Malcolm's age, with slightly unkept shoulder-length chocolate colored hair, and long bangs combed to the right side of her face. Aside from the jacket, she wore a grey sweater—a red tank top poking out over the top—and dark, ripped jeans, complete with tattered black sneakers. Her colbolt eyes were glaring at him as she threw the jacket down beside her. _All in all_, he concluded, _A very….rebellious looking girl._

Sensing the confusion—or in her case, disgust—between them, Gretchen stood up and scurried over to the girl. "Francis," she began, promptly snatching the leashes from the teenager's hands, "Zhis is Lillian; our daughter."

His jaw dropped. "D….dau….daughter….? B-but I never…._you_ never…."

"I'm adopted, dumbass." The girl—or Lillian—huffed, crossing her arms. Gretchen muttered a word of scolding, but Lillian ignored it, instead continuing to stare at the blond furiously.

Deciding he did not like this girl, Francis scowled right back at her. "You're a little old to be—"

"Oh!" Gretchen suddenly interjected, "you have not met zhe latest additions to our leettle family!"

He rolled his eyes. _You mean besides miss 'sunshine and roses' here?_

Standing back up, Francis was surprised to see the two, black and white balls of fur squirming in the German' woman's arms: their tongues lolling out the sides of their mouths and button-sized noses sniffing furiously. "Zhis," she began, nodding to the little dog in her right arm, "is Shnite. And _zhis_," same motion to the left arm "is Bonen." Her voice shot up an octave, kissing their heads. "Zhey are Lillian's pets—Shih Tzus, right?"

At Gretchen's side, Lillian nodded.

Angsty teen aside, a smile tugged at the corner of Francis' mouth, something that hadn't happened in a very long time. "Cute." He said, though more to himself than the girls.

Gretchen sighed, snuggling the two fuzzballs even closer. "Yes, yes zhey are."

"Yeah, and they're _mine_." Lillian added sharply, taking Shnite and Bonen from her mother, even though Francis knew she'd directed her comment at _him_. Rolling his eyes yet again, he turned back around. "I _know_ that." He whispered dryly, crossing his own arms.

Sensing the tension, and arms free of the spotted dogs, Gretchen made her way back towards the couch.

"Lillian," she called, earning her a huff from behind the couch, "Vhy don't you find your fazher, hm? I'm sure he has….much to talk about vis Francis here."

The teenager made no reply, but the deliberate heaviness in her step told him just what she thought of the abrupt dismissal.

And maybe hinted at why she'd reacted so coldly to him.

Waiting until she was out of earshot, Francis released a long breath. "She seemed….nice." He offered, trying to smile at the older woman.

Gretchen, as before, waved a scolding finger at him. "You don't need to pretend. Lillian isn't zhe most….pleasant girl….but she is trying to fit into zhis family." A small laugh, followed by a playful smile. "After all, of she knows of you is zhe stories Otto tells of a city boy nearly sending him bankrupt!"

Something told Francis that was supposed to make him feel better.

It didn't.

And neither did her next suggestion.

"Now, Francis," Gretchen said, switching to a much more serious tone, "Vhy don't you tell me vhy you vere standing on our doorstep in such a state zhe ozher day?"

_That's okay, Gretchen, really. I'd rather not….._

However, what he actually said went something along the lines of: "Uh….I guess I owe you _that_ much….Just…." his eyes trailed back to the television screen. "Don't turn the TV on 'till I finish."

"Vhy? I told you zhat—"

"_Please_ Gretchen!" He interjected, grabbing her hands in an act of desperation "You, Otto, Lillian—_no one_ can turn it on until you hear what I have to say!"

"I….I…." she stammered, taken aback by his outburst. She'd never seen him seem so….helpless. Desperate. And he knew that.

Pulling his hands away from hers, the German woman nodded. "Okay." She said, forehead creasing, "Zhe TV stays off."

"Thank you." He breathed, struggling to hear himself over his escalating heartbeat. "Thank you."


	3. Past: commitment

_Before I get started, I just want to make one thing clear: It wasn't my fault. I don't care what you hear, or who you hear it from: I didn't do it. I mean sure, we weren't perfect—we argued from time to time, and occasionally, things could get nasty….but we always made up at the end of the day. _

_Because we loved each other._

I_ loved _her_._

_So _why_ would I kill her?_

This was wrong. So so _so_ very wrong.

And ironic.

_Horribly_ ironic.

Just a mere two weeks ago, he'd been on top of the world: high on life and loved by the most beautiful woman in the whole world.

Now?

Bitter, alone, convicted….and _trapped_.

In this colorless, friendless, prison of an institute hell-bent on trying to cure a problem that wasn't there.

With each stainless white wall….every white clad patient, an uncomfortable knot twisted in his stomach. He didn't belong here. With the spacey glares, the self-conversations….the constantly sedated. He wasn't one of them.

He wasn't _crazy_.

"Where the hell are we going?" He snapped, glaring at the burly, caramel haired orderly leading him down the seemingly endless hallway.

The older man grunted, raising an eyebrow. "Quit yer whining. We're almost there."

"_And where is _there_ exactly?" _Francis thought bitterly, rolling his eyes.

"Watch it, _boy_." The orderly snapped suddenly, tightening his already firm hold on Francis' shoulder. Francis grimaced, but it was more from irritation than pain. He'd said that out loud? Greeeeat.

_Of course, it's not like he can hold it against you,_ his consciousness—this time he was certain he hadn't mistakenly spoken—pointed out, _they all think you're a looney._ Still grimacing, he glared daggers at the man dragging him down the hallway, cursing at how true it was.

_Everyone_ assumed his apparently fragile sanity died the night _she_ was murdered.

_Granted, they think _you_ did it, so…._

"Shut up." The blond hissed, not really caring if the man at his side heard him or not. The best way, he always said, to silence one's thoughts was to do it aloud.

Regardless of who might be listening.

Abruptly, the Orderly jerked him sharply around the corner, pinching his already shoulder.

"Ow!" Francis barked, trying and failing to yank himself free, "What was that—"

He stopped.

A narrow, pasty white door stood only inches from his nose. A door, he noticed, with a faded brass '113' nailed just short of the top. A door that his 'escort' just so happened to have a key for.

_Fantastic_.

"Well, here we are." Said escort announced, turning the doorknob with a sharp _click_, "This is yer room."

Almost as soon as the word 'room' left the older man's mouth, Francis whipped around. "My…." He sputtered, struggling to digest the concept. "M-my room….?" It shouldn't have been a surprise: after all, the little trek through the cataclysmic hallway hadn't been for shits and giggles.

He wasn't a lab rat.

He was a _patient_.

A _prisoner_.

Standing there, in the doorway of his new 'home,' forced Francis to realize that this was actually happening, and there was no way out of it.

He was being _committed_.

"Come on, I don't have all day."

Senses gone hazy, he nodded numbly, body moving automatically as he peered into the room. It was…._white_. White walls, white floors, white bedspread….even the _window frames _werewhite. If it weren't for the variation in materials, he wouldn't have been able to dictate tell the furniture apart from the surrounding space. Much less where the floor ended and the ceiling began. It was a bit dizzying, actually.

Blinking several times to clear the overwhelming sensation brought about by the lack of color-scheme, his previous train of thought returned.

They really were going to try to keep him here.

"Something wrong, _boy_?"

He flinched at the Orderly's warm breath on the back of his neck. "You mean _besides_ the fact you're condemning an innocent man to the funny farm?"

He didn't need to look up to know his escort's eyes rolled. The _bastard_.

"You still yammerin' about that? Francis, the trial's over. You ain't got nobody to plead to anymore." A pause, followed by a frustrated sigh. "Now get your ass _in there_ before I have to _throw_ you." He concluded, pointing sharply into the room.

Francis would have tackled him to the ground right then and there. He hated this. Being treated like….like….like a mad man!

Like a _murderer_.

However, he refrained from lashing out at the much older—and much _larger_—man. A physical attack would only hurt his claim to innocence.

Something he was still determined to—

"Whoa-ho! Francis, that isn't you, is it?"

Francis' head shot up so fast he was sure he pulled a neck muscle. His eyes, previously devoid of anything but betrayal, widened to their fullest extent as they came to rest on a very familiar face, seated on the bed at the opposite side of the room.

"R….Ritchie?" He asked, the shock rendering his voice weak and shaky. "Is….is that _you_?"

The man in question grinned, his own chocolate pupils gleaming. "Yeah man! It's me!" He chuckled, pulling a strand of his now shoulder-length hair behind his ear, "long time no see, huh?"

Francis' jaw dropped somewhere around his ankles. "Y-yeah. Yeah I'll say it is." Refreshing as it was to see a _friendly_ familiar face, the given place of this little 'reunion' irked him slightly. "What…." He sputtered, swallowing his building apprehension, "….what are you doing here?"

Ritchie laughed, though at what, Francis couldn't say. "Dude, I was _totally_ about to ask you the same question!"

_Ah_.

"Are you like, moving in here?"

"Uh…." Anger flickered in his azure eyes. "You _could_ say that."

Apparently, Ritchie didn't notice, as he eagerly hopped off the bed and over to his friend. "Sweet!" he chirped, sending a wave of uneasiness over Francis. "Aw man, this'll be like old times! We can totally hang out during our time off, stay up as late as we want—granted we don't have a cheap-ass stove but we don't really need it here—there are all sorts of activities we can…."

As Ritchie continued to babble like a little girl, Francis realized just how different his friend actually was from the last time he'd seen him. Apart from his much longer hair, Ritchie physically was much leaner, and much scruffier: dark spots of stubble were scattered across his chin and a bit over his lip. He didn't look unhealthy. Just….different.

_Almost like a hobo._ He concluded inwardly, before shaking his head. Hobos didn't squeal like teenage girls on a shopping spree. At least, not _Ritchie_ hobos.

Not before, anyway.

"I'll leave you two alone." The Orderly said, a tone of mockery laced in his husky voice as he backed out of the room. "I'll be back for dinner."

_Can't wait._ Francis mentally retaliated, wishing the damned nuisance of a man would just leave him alone. Or better yet, get him the hell out of—

"Oh!"

"Yes?" Francis cried, running over to the man. And just when he was beginning to doubt his stupid luck.

"Your family will be along later to get you settled in. Officially." The orderly added before Francis could utter a snide remark. He frowned.

Screw luck.

"They aren't my family anymore. Tell them I don't—"

"Boy, you don't have a choice. You lost the right to make yer own decisions the night you cracked. 'Sides, we need 'em t' decide what kinda therapy yer gonna undergo and whatnot."

He received no reply. All words caught in Francis' throat: his mind racing a mile a minute as horror all but took over. He was being put into therapy? His….his emancipation was null?

His….his parents….his _mother_….had control again?

"Dammit no!" Francis screamed, dropping to his knees. "No no no _no_! That's not fair!" Hands still curled, he slammed a fist into the floor, paying no heed to the needles of pain instantaneously stinging his hand upon impact.

"Dude…." He thought he heard Ritchie say, "it's…."

That's all he heard. All he _needed_ to hear. Ritchie didn't know—how _could_ he know? How could anyone in this damn place possibly comprehend his feelings right now?

"Francis…." The Orderly called somewhere over his hammering heart, "Francis, you need to calm down or I'm going to have to—"

"Calm down?" The hysterical blond shrieked, whipping his head towards the older man, "You want me to _calm down_? After all the hell I've been through?" The orderly had raised a hand defensively; a feat Francis disregarded.

"Come on man," Ritchie's voice came again from behind, "this isn't helping any—"

"Shut up, Ritchie!" He snapped. "I'm not like you okay? I'm not one of you….you….you _criminals_! I don't belong—OW!"

Spinning around on his heal, his eyes darted around for the cause of the sudden pain in his neck. Fueled with the turmoil of emotions bubbling within him, it was easy for the grief-stricken man to zero in on the source.

It wasn't, however, easy to comprehend it.

A grave expression carved into his angular features, the orderly stood, only inches away, with both hands raised now….one of them clutching a translucent….and _empty_….syringe.

"I'm sorry, Francis." The older man said, his voice oddly empathetic despite his grave expression. "This isn't your fault."

_You're….you're damn right it isn't. _Francis thought, though he knew full well that wasn't at all the intended mean of the words. _I'm….I'm…._

Suddenly, his surroundings began to blur, becoming a blended, colorless shade of blinding white. He tried to blink, but his eyelids felt weighed down, and after a few times, they refused to open after closing. Indeed, his entire body felt heavy, as if thirty pound weights had fastened themselves to his limbs, distorting his balance and his vision into a dizzying spiral.

It was a bit like being drunk.

Except this time, there was no alcohol.

This time, he'd been drugged the professional way.

"D-Damn….ittttt…." he whispered as the world curved, and gravity kicked in, and he collapsed.

**Not sure I like the ending….I wasn't sure how to end this chapter but I figured, hey, first day, of course Francis would snap.**

**However, it's the later chapters I can't wait to write!**


	4. Past: visit

"I can't believe he had to _tranq'_ me." Francis moaned, dragging his hands over his face in humiliation. "Look what I've been reduced to."

Across the room, Ritchie was laughing hysterically, making Francis wish even further that the bed he lay upon would just swallow him up.

"Dude relax!" The brunette wheezed in between his giggle fits, " You're freakin' out over _nothing_!"

"_Nothing_?" Francis echoed, embarrassment mixed with disbelief in his voice, "Ritchie, I had to be _drugged_. _Sedated_. _Knocked out_. How is that _nothing_?" Still on his back, he'd propped himself up on his elbows, silently daring his friend to contradict him.

"Pfffft please." Ritchie answered, the spark in his eye signaling he _took_ the challenge, "He only hit you with a low dosage. That's _nothing_ in comparison to what _I_ got when I first came here." By this point, he'd stopped laughing, launching himself upright and crossing his legs Indian style. "I'm not proud of this," he went on, lowering his voice. Francis resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "….but I almost _killed_ ol' Burt."

The eye-rolling desire quickly vanished. "_Who_?" Francis asked, forcing the question from his lips to keep gaping at his friend. "W-Who's _Burt_?"

"The _Orderly_." Ritchie clarified, either not detecting or not caring about the look of alarm on the blond's face. "Yeah….got my hands 'round that stocky neck of his and refused to let go." He sighed, gaze trailing up towards the ceiling. "I tell ya. I ain't never been hit by a truck, but I imagine being thrown to the floor with I don't even wanna know high a dosage flowing through my veins has gotta be pre-_tty_ close." A somewhat sympathetic chuckle was tacked to the word 'close,' but Francis found this little….story….anything but _funny_.

Ritchie….almost _killed_ someone….?

No….no that didn't…..that couldn't….

"Why…." He asked hoarsely, not even sure he wanted an answer, "….why are you _here_, Ritchie? Why….why did they lock _you_ up?"

Ritchie shrugged, and for an instant, a flicker of pain flashed across his face. It was only for an instant though, as the brunette quickly resumed his previous nonchalant manner. "Arson, mostly" He said, voice oddly serious, "burnt down my house after mom tried to kick me out." Again he laughed, but his mouth was twisted into a poorly hidden grimace. "Law figured, since I hadn't learned from being arrested, that maybe _this_ was the best place to go. And voila," Ritchie concluded, gesturing to himself with an extended arm, "Two years later, I'm a new man!"

By this point, he'd plastered a large, confident smirk on his face, crossing his arms as if proud of himself. However….

_I guess even _Ritchie_ feels remorse for _some_ things,_ Francis mentally concluded, running his friend's explanation through his mind once more, _I mean, he _is_ only—_

"Wait a minute!" The blond man suddenly cried, his thoughts stuck on Ritchie's conclusion, "Two years? Y-you had to stay here for _two years_? How is….that isn't….will I—"

"Whoa man, take it easy! Weren't you _just_ complaining about the whole tranquilizer thing? I'd keep it down unless you wanna go through _that_ again."

As degrading as it was for _Ritchie_ to be giving _him_ advice—rather than the other way around—Francis bit his lip, forcing himself to exhale slowly through his nose. He would never admit it aloud, but Ritchie was right. What remained of his dignity had already been trampled enough. He settled instead for an airy, "I know," and once more fell back against his scratchy pillow. "This whole thing just sucks."

The shuffling at Ritchie's side of the room told Francis his friend had changed his position on his bed. "I hear ya." He said, that unfamiliar pained tone laced under his words, "But—and I speak from personal experience—it _does_ get better." Again, more shuffling, but Francis neither wanted nor cared to know how Ritchie had draped himself atop his bed. "The denial's the hardest part—trust me, but after a few sessions here you'll really be able to—"

"I'm not _in_ denial, Ritchie!" Francis snapped, cutting him off, "I'm innocent, _okay_?" His brow creased as he sat up, perturbed to find the brunette lying on his back; head hanging off the end of the bed. "How _dare_ you compare your little 'arsonist games' to the murder of—"

"Mr. Wilkerson?"

Abruptly, Francis closed his mouth, recognizing the Orderly's—or Burt's—voice.

"Yeah?" he asked hesitantly, heart rate escalating a fraction. Despite the stoic expression the older man wore, something in his tone of voice caused Francis' stomach to squirm.

It was one sentence. One stupid, insignificant sentence. And yet, when it passed through Burt's mouth, Francis literally felt his heart stop.

"Your family is here to see you."

"I'm not going through those doors." Francis hissed, folding his arms tightly over his chest. "You got that? I _refuse_." In another place, in another time, he would have cringed at his childlike manner; he was an _adult_, dammit. Yet….given the current circumstances, the blond man had no trouble at all resorting to infantile stubbornness.

It pissed off his escort, and sent his point across rather well.

"You ain't got a choice."

Yep, pissed him off, all right.

"Oh yeah?" Francis shot back, a small, purple vein throbbing at his temple. "Then why don't you make—AGH!"

Without warning, a hard and strong painful object slammed into his back, causing him to lurch forward, and into the undesired visitor's room.

Leave it to life to throw him a curveball.

_That bastard!_ Francis' mind screamed furiously, face twisted into a hurt expression as he tried to straighten his position despite his now very sore back. _He hit…._

"Have fun." Burt….chuckled?...from behind. Not bothering to turn around himself, Francis stuck his right hand in the air, effectively flipping the man off in retaliation. He heard several scolding 'tsks' and gasps from the various tables scattered across the room, but paid it no heed. Who the hell were they to—

"Francis Wilkerson! You put that finger away _right now_!"

Francis froze.

_Oh shit_.

There was no time to bolt—and the damned Orderly would be waiting for him if he _did_—so instead, Francis spun around, his eyes set in a piercing glare at the people who as of recently made him sick to his stomach. "Well, if it isn't the two worst parents in the entire world." He chirped, his voice dripping in revulsion. His mother—horrible parent number one—met his eyes head on, her face stone cold save for a slight twitch at the left corner of her mouth.

"Nice to see you too, Francis." She alleged, taking a step forward.

Disregarding this action, the eldest Wilkerson boy shifted his gaze to horrible parent number two. "And dear old dad. What a surprise!" His father, the weaker personality, held his hand up in greeting; refusing to look at him. _Good to know the old man feels _some_ shame, _he thought, eyes now traveling over his father's head to the three disheveled mops of hair seated behind him.

He shouldn't have been surprised. He _really_ shouldn't have. They were, after all, mindlessly sucking in the lies their parents fed them, and he, cooped up in this hell-hole, could do nothing to set the story straight. Still, seeing the distance and hesitation, rather than admiration, for their eldest brother in their clouded pupils irked him.

"….hey guys." He said, mouth curved in a half-hearty smile, "how've you been?"

Dewey, the youngest and far cleverest of the three, was the only one to smile back. "Fine." He replied, and had Francis not been an expert at reading people, he would have believed him. But the subtle glances at the two he was sandwiched between, accompanied by the jittery hands and slightly faster than normal breathing were a dead giveaway that his younger brother was, in fact, nervous to be here, despite his expression.

He suddenly wondered if his brothers had put Dewey up to this, and he frowned.

"I'm not going to _bite_, guys." He offered, stepping around his mother and towards the younger boys.

"That's true, boys," his father chimed in, driven by what Francis suspected as poorly repressed guilt, "he'd be in restraints if he were."

His father averted his eyes as Francis glared daggers at him.

"Your father's right." His mother said suddenly, making that uncomfortable feeling in his chest escalate. "Your brother's harmless here. Now stand up and say hello."

As per usual when his mother dictated an order, her three senseless puppets obeyed. But, even as they greeted him one by one, it was painfully obvious it wasn't genuine.

Everyone else thought he'd jumped off the deep end, why should his brothers be any different?

After the boys had gone and sat back down, the family of seven fell into an incredible awkward silence…..

Wait a minute.

There were only _six_ here.

"W….where's Jamie?" He asked, trying desperate to hide the disbelief creeping into the question.

His mother didn't bat an eye as she stated, "We left him with the babysitter."

"What? _Why_?" This wasn't right. Jamie was his brother, too. In spite of the large age difference, Francis should have had a right to see him. A family visit was supposed to mean _everyone_. Even if it _was_ to a mental asylum.

"Francis, don't be ridiculous," his mother rattled on, indifferent to her son's pain and lack of understanding, "We couldn't bring him _here_. It's….well it's…."

"Dangerous?" He finished for her, feeling the restraint on his temper rapidly slipping. "But you just said—"

"Well I didn't know that until we pulled in!"

And there it was. Confirmation of her total disregard for his well-being. "You…." He began, hands clenching so tightly his knuckles were white, "….you banished me to this….this soul-sucking facility without even researching it? Dammit, mom!" The fury bubbling in his chest finally burst, guiding his fist into the nearest wall.

All surrounding activity in the room ceased.

"How could you do this to me?" Francis cried, "I mean, _look_ at this place! It's a fucking _crazy_ _house_!"

On the surface, she was calm, collected; a rock. Underneath, he knew he'd struck a chord. It burned like a flame in her lightless eyes. "It was either here or _prison_, Francis, you know th—"

"No! No, don't _lie_! You could have _listened_ to me! You could have—you _should_ have believed me!" The familiar loss of control flooded his senses, drowning out the little voice in his head that had previously been restraining his rage. It was too much. Just….too much to deal with. As this nightmarish life of his continued, someone or something always found a way to rob him of that which held dear. His money, his love, his freedom….the list went on and on. Even as he stood here, with shaking knees and on the verge of tears, Francis knew none of what went on with his family would make a difference. His mother, his father….Reese, Malcolm, Dewey….he was nothing more than a broken burden; the loose thread of their dysfunctional family that was always hanging over their heads, reminding them, barely, of his existence if only by tying himself around their finger.

Waiting for the day his pitiful efforts were cut and thrown in the trash of unimportance.

Without realizing it, he'd turned himself around, and begun blankly moving towards the door. From somewhere behind him his mother was screeching like the banshee she was, his father was desperately calling out to him, and three of his four brothers were sitting there, estranged.

Life was a cruel, cruel thing.

_I can't take it anymore,_ he thought bitterly, waiting for the inevitable tranquilizer accompanying a fuming Burt into the visitor's room, _I _will_ get out of here. Even if it kills me._

**XD**

**Yes, we see poor Francis' reaction with his family.**

**It went a little differently than I'd planned, but because of exam week at my school, I didn't get around to the second part until recently, and by that point, I'd forgotten what I was originally going to write. I hope you guys liked it anyway.**

**After this, there's only one more 'past' part, then it's back to the present!**


	5. Past: the great escape

_I hadn't been kidding when I said I'd get out—obviously I did or I wouldn't be able to even tell this…._story_. Still, it proved trickier—if that's the right word—then I thought. Despite my being framed, I can't really say the same for the other patients. Granted, I didn't actually _know_ them, but after six months in that bar-less, colorless prison, I quickly learned to divert eye contact and move out of the way when passing anyone in the hallway._

_Especially those damned doctors. Started believing _they_ were the crazy ones, you know? Like "The Ninth Configuration," except far less scary, and ten times more annoying._

_Every time I found an escape route, they were on my trail, shouting into their walkie-talkies and making unnecessary hand signals at their colleagues. _

_Pains me to admit without their hound-dog behavior, some of my bones might not have healed properly. Sounds reckless I know, but hey, a good explorer needs to know at what depth a human leg will break upon impact. Among other things._

_And by the end of the day, I bet ya everything I've got ol' Indiana Jones woulda been proud of how much ground I'd covered._

_Knew that whole damned hospital like the back of my hand._

From the moment Francis opened his eyes that morning, he had been fueled with vigorous determination. It surged through his veins, sending his heart soaring and stomach flip-flopping. Today was the day. The day where all the blood sweat and tears he'd shed would finally pay off.

The day he'd be _free_.

Swallowing down a beaming smirk, he rolled over onto his side so that he was facing the window at the back wall. Despite his unofficial title as 'failed escape artist' amongst several patients—even doctors—none of them realized he had not one ounce of humiliation; rather the opposite. Ever cut, bruise, fracture or break he'd attained did nothing more than teach him how _not_ to get out—instead of terminate the plan entirely, as he knew his therapist—and so many others—hoped for.

Though it strongly went against his fizzling temper, Francis let the faculty think his efforts were futile. Sure, it diminished a fraction of his self-respect, and truly deemed him a _desperate_ _lunatic_ in their eyes, but the ultimate goal would forever make up for it. If he played his cards right, by tomorrow, he'd be able to throw his head back and laugh, miles away from this horrid little place and all its white coats and unfriendly needless.

He'd be his own man once more.

Yawning again in order to shake off the last remnants of sleep, Francis tossed his legs over the side of his bed and stood up. Time to start the day.

"Good morning, Ritchie!" He practically sang, turning to greet the tumbleweed of hair poking out from under the snow-colored sheets. Ritchie groaned.

"Dude, could you keep it down? It's waaaay to early for that kind of thing."

Francis sighed. "It's ten o' clock." He said, throwing a quick glance at the clock stationed a few feet above the door.

"Like I said: too early."

He opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of the idea and shut it, instead busying himself with his typical morning routine. Wake up, get dressed, brush teeth, use bathroom, _unlock window,_ etc. Yep. Typical morning routine.

It was right as he began tucking in his bedspread that the lifeless lump called Ritchie—who still lay buried under his own blankets—said something….unexpected. "Gonna try to get out again?"

For a moment, Francis ceased making his bed, before straightening his position. "What makes you say that?" He inquired, more anxious than curious at his friend's question.

"Come on man, you know only wake up happy when you're planning to escape."

Damn Ritchie and his unaccounted for perceptiveness. "Do….do I really." The blond stated, abandoning his previous actions to look at his friend. To his surprise, Ritchie had managed to pull himself into a sitting position. Not bad for a lifeless lump. Granted, it was his expression that really threw Francis for a loop, more so than the actual physical effort he'd made to get up.

For the first time since….since Francis could even remember, the brunette wore a grave, stone cold expression across his scruffy face. "Francis, your cast just came off two weeks ago. If you break your leg again, there's no guarantee it'll heal." He'd leaned himself forward, his dark eyes locked with Francis' own azure pupils. Staring into his gaze, a faint chill crawled down the blond man's spine, and he redirected his line of vision towards the window. About four feet below, an extension of the roof jutted out from the side of the building; it was angled, but not hazardous. However….to make it from there to the ground may not be so easy….

_Unless…._

"Don't be ridiculous, Ritchie." He murmured, his stomach twisting uncomfortably at what he was about to do. "I have no intention of breaking anything anymore."

"You….don't?"

Francis shook his head, swallowing thickly. "No, I don't." Abruptly, his hand clamped around the window frame, and he whirled around to face the brown-haired man. "Today, I _am_ getting out of here." It took everything in his power to keep from outwardly cringing upon his revelation. Friend or not, Ritchie wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, and could easily be—

"Uh-_huh_. Heard that one before."

_What?_ "W-what?"

Ritchie's previously serious expression flattened. "It's old news, man. Every time you say that, they always bring ya right back here again."

Sweat began dotting the blond's brow. This wasn't going exactly as he'd planned. Not bad, per say….just…._different_. "I don't have time to argue right now!" He exclaimed, then swore for losing his cool. "Are you gonna help me or not?"

Now it was Ritchie's turn to act bewildered. "Help you…._what_?"

_Resist the eye roll…._he told himself, taking a deep breath…._Resist the eye roll…._ "Look. You know me. You know I would never kill _anyone_, right?" The knot lodged in his stomach twisted further as he waited for Ritchie's response.

"….yeah…."

"And you also believe that….if someone is wronged….they should do everything they can to rectify the situation, right?"

"….I….guess…."

"And….and we're friends, right?"

Ritchie crossed his arms. "Francis, what is this about?"

Beckoning to the brown haired man with his hand, Francis answered simply, "I need you to watch my back."

Ritchie's eyes widened a fraction. "You need me too…."

"I only have one shot at this! One damn shot before they confine me to a _straight jacket_!" He cried, grabbing the other man by the shoulders and shaking him violently, "I'm asking you as a friend—_please_ help me out!"

It registered only moments later that Ritchie had somehow removed Francis' leach-like grip on him, and was now….backing away….?

_Oh no._

"Ritchie…." He sputtered, the color draining from his face, "I'm sorry….I just—"

"No man….It's okay. I understand." The brunette replied, holding up his hands. "I'll do what I can to help."

Francis released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "….thanks, man." He said, heading back towards the window. "I owe you."

"Forget it." Ritchie replied, something….unidentifiable….hiding behind his eyes. In his anxiety, Francis merely chose to dub it as regret for having to part with company. Besides, he had far more important things to worry about. "Okay…." He tried again, stepping closer to the window, "….see that ledge down there?" He tapped the glass with his finger, indicating the extended roof beneath it. Ritchie nodded. "And see the drop below it?"

"….yeah, it's like—"

"Pretty far to jump, I know." He interjected, using that same finger to poke the brown-haired man's shoulder. "Which is where _you_ come in."

"Uh…." Ritchie's facial expression flattened, clearly at a loss. _Perfect_.

"Look, all I need you to do is to distract and/or prevent the doctors from coming after me." He explained, massaging his temples in frustration at the other man's lack of comprehension. "Therapy starts in half an hour, which gives me just enough time to climb down the side of the building us—"

"You're not spiderm—"

"Let me finish." The blond almost growled. He needed Ritchie's help in order to make a safe…._er_….get away, yet at the same time….he sighed. No he was thrown into this hell-hole.

"Francis?"

He blinked, reeling out of his thoughts. "Hm?"

Now it was Ritchie's turn to sigh. "You were saying?"

Oh….right. The explanation. "I was _saying_," He started, ears bright red from embarrassment, "that I'd use the window sills as foot holders….a _ladder_." He added, at the still blank expression adorning Ritchie's features. "It's a bit tricky I know, but I'd rather risk playing ninja than potentially fracturing my entire lower body, you know?"

"I know."

He couldn't help it; Freedom was so close, he just had to smile. "Great." Francis concluded, patting the other man on the other shoulder, "thanks, man."

Oddly enough, Ritchie didn't reply. However, the emotions stirring in his chest prevented Francis from actively noticing, much less caring. At this point in time, it didn't matter what his friend thought; _nothing_ and _no one_ about this damned facility mattered anymore.

_Still…._

"Hey man…." Francis piped up, receiving a head turn from Ritchie, who had wandered back to his side of the room. The blond man took a deep breath. "When I get out….uh….maybe…." he swallowed, one hand falling next to the unhinged window latch, "….maybe I can do something about _you_. You know….once I've cleared my _own_ name." The smile he'd been wearing softened into a sympathetic grin. "It's been great seeing you again."

Though it wasn't entirely sincere, Ritchie offered a small smirk in return. "It sure has." He chuckled, a bit sadly, as his eyes traveled towards the clock, "like old times."

Francis joined his laughter, shaking his head. "Sure has."

The laughter died, and with it came a sullen silence; the only sound a dry **CREEEEEAK** as Francis heaved open his bedroom window. Adrenaline pumping through his veins, he threw one leg over the window sill, pants billowing in the outside breeze.

The first real air he'd felt since his arrival six long months ago.

Ducking so as not to bang his head, Francis called to his best friend one last time. "Be seeing you." He murmured, pulling the rest of his body out onto the angled roof top. From somewhere behind him, he could have sworn he'd heard Ritchie mutter something along the lines of "sooner than you think," before shaking it off as the wind whistling in his ears. That was absurd. Why say something like that?

_Forget him!_ His thoughts protested, guiding his body up against the white brick wall, _focus on what's important right now! Like climbing _down_ from here!_

Right. Of course. He had to focus. Clear his mind of all but the task ahead. Hugging the building like his life depended on it—and in a sense, it did—Francis cautiously inched his way along the angled surface, towards the nearest window. Just a few more feet….

Just as instantly as it had risen, his heart sank to the pit of his stomach. "Fuck!" He whispered violently, mentally kicking himself for such a miscalculation. He'd forgotten most patients didn't draw the blinds during the day. If the rooms were occupied, he'd most likely be seen.

_Okay….okay….calm down. _He told himself, gripping at the wall for all it was worth, _you can still follow through with this….even if you're spotted, they're gonna have to come through your room…._That's right. His room.

And he'd already taken precaution for that.

However, it did nothing to calm his nerves. Or boost his confidence. Yet something in the back of his mind urged him onward, and before he had the chance to protest, that same something managed to lift his foot from the roof and lower it down to the window sill two feet down. Swearing under his breath, Francis' hands corresponded; gripping the roof as he bent down to place his other foot upon the undersized ledge. Sturdy though it seemed under his feet, Francis couldn't shake the feeling that something horrible was about to happen. Imaginary scenarios of him losing his grip, slipping and splattering against the concrete surface some twenty feet down kept flashing before his eyes, bubbling in his throat and nearly causing him to vomit. For an instant, Francis squeezed his eyes shut, trying to clear his head. "Come on come on…." he chanted, exhaling slowly, "that isn't going to happen. You're going to be fine." He just needed to clear his mind. Think about what's important. He was going to be….

"Hey! Hey you! What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?"

Oh shit.

He didn't need Malcolm's genius brain to realize he'd been seen. _Just my luck_, he groaned inwardly, his eyes widening as he attempted to scramble to the next window. _Careful careful!_ His thoughts screamed, matching the frantic expression on the blond man's face as his foot nearly missed the ledge. Biting his lip so hard it nearly bled, he suddenly became aware of a sharp pain shooting through his lower arms. He grimaced. _Must have pulled something._

"He….right there!"

"…the window….are you sure?"

"….course!...patient….don't know—blond!"

Again, a few choice curse words passed through said blond's lips; the fragmented conversation from above landing on his ears. Word was spreading.

He was running out of time.

As the two men—doctors he assumed—continued their heated discussion, he'd managed to make it halfway down; indeed, the ground was only ten feet away. A part of him wanted to jump; with his premature exposure, he couldn't afford to take the easy way out…..but at the same time, to jump that far down—onto concrete no less—was _not_ going to end well.

For neither his body _nor_ his mind.

"Francis! Are you out of yer mind? Get back up here this _instant_!"

Like a deer in headlights, Francis stopped cold. That was no doctor's voice.

With his heart pounding against his ribcage, Francis risked a wary glance at the familiar angry tone.

"Hey….Bur—" Abruptly, his words caught in his throat; eyes bulging so wide they nearly popped from his head. Ol' Burt was there alright; glaring furiously at him from his bedroom window….but so was a very grave, and very disappointed-looking _Ritchie_.

This time, Francis felt he really _would_ vomit, breath now erratic as shock, anger and _betrayal_ washed over him. How could he? How could his best friend do something so….so….

"Why?" Francis mouthed, unable to find his voice.

Face never changing, Ritchie solemnly shook his head. "I'm sorry, Francis." He said, causing bile to gather in the blond's throat, "but you need _help_. And you're not gonna get it the way you are _now_."

Francis stared; the force of Ritchie's words stabbing him like….like _knives_. "You bastard!" He screamed, pounding the side of the building with a free hand. "Sonuvabitch!" He should have known this would happen. Should have known Ritchie wouldn't believe him.

No one else did.

Burning hatred flushing away his previous anxiety drove him to keep going, despite the shouts from above and angry radio commands.

He was his own man all right. Whether by choice or not.

With a burst of adrenaline, he abandoned his climb, choosing instead to leave his physical well-being to chance. Injured or not, he was not about to stop. Not about to give up. Even as gravity slammed him on his hands and knees from seven feet up, and he heard an unpleasant cracking sound at the base of his ankles. Even as the alarm system went off, alerting the grounds of his escape. Even as a team of armed doctors and guards came sprinting from the hospital's back entrance, their faces pale and their guns—some tranq, some bullet—_loaded_.

Francis Wilkerson was an innocent man.

And he was going to do every damn thing he could to clear his name.

Or he was gonna die trying.

**And we're done with flashbacks! YAAAAY!**

**A few things to point out: this may not be totally accurate in how most asylums operate/are built, but hey, it was based on a dream, and I'm sticking with it!**

"**The Nineth Configuration" Francis is referring to is an AWESOME movie! If you're interested, go either watch it, or read about it on Wikipedia. AMAZING.**


	6. Present day: solution

"….And after that, well….I somehow managed to find my way _here_." Francis concluded, releasing a slow, shaky breath as he stared into Gretchen's round, sad eyes. The German woman had cupped her hand over her mouth in what appeared to be disbelief; her wrinkled hand touching his lower arm tenderly.

"Oh you poor, poor boy!" She squealed, sympathetic tears brimming in the corners of her see-blue eyes, "Zhat's horreeble!"

"Horrible?" An unaccounted for voice scoffed, from behind the couch "more like _criminal_."

Barely restraining himself from swearing, Francis nearly jumped a foot in the air, despite his being in a sitting position. Whipping his head around to face his addressor, his heart sank to his stomach. Leaning up against a staircase railing he'd fail to have seen earlier stood a very angry looking Lillian Mannkusser; her arms crossed tightly over her chest, and her eyes glaring from behind a curtain of brown hair. However, the angry teen wasn't who filled Francis with dread, but rather, whom she was standing _next_ to.

"O-Otto!" The blond squeaked, fumbling for the right words as he plastered a nervous smile on his face, "H-How long have you been, uh, standing there?" Inwardly, however, Francis was all but freaking out. He hadn't planned on confronting Otto until much _later_ after relaying his tragic story to Gretchen. She then, hopefully, would have used what he had told her in his favor when confronting her husband with what to do with the man who almost sent him into bankruptcy. Instead, fate decided to screw him over yet again.

Mind racing frantically, Francis waited for some sign of acknowledgement—kind or not—from his former boss; better to get it over with while he was still immobile. Surprisingly, however, the German man didn't answer his question, but rather nodded to his daughter, granting _her_ permission to continue.

"Long enough." Lillian alleged, her hands clutching at her folded arms. "We _know_ why you're here now."

And here he'd hoped having the younger girl speak—instead of her father—would ease his nerves if ever so slightly.

Wrong again.

"Y…." Francis sputtered, anxiety clawing at his throat and making it difficult to breath, "….You…._do_?"

Lillian rolled her eyes. "Uh, _yeah_. I just said that. Pay atten—"

"_Lillian_!" Gretchen snapped, removing herself from Francis' side and promptly rising to her feet. "Zhat is _quvite_ enough!" The German woman raised a scolding finger, her wrinkled face scrunched up in anger at the teenager. "You are not helping!"

Glowering, Lillian's dark eyes locked with her mother's glistening lighter ones. "That's because you _cut me off_ before I could finish." She snapped back, her arms dropping to her sides.

"I _cut you off_ because you are making zhis poor boy" and here she pointed harshly at Francis, "even more nervous zhan he already is!" They were nose to nose now; mother versus daughter—generation versus generation.

And scarily similar to events he'd personally experienced one too many times in the past.

He waited temporarily, casting a daring glance at the silent Otto, wondering if he would take it upon himself to break up this little family dispute. The German man, however, remained stiff-jawed; he had no intention of butting in. _Great_, Francis thought, his stomach twisting uncomfortably in anticipation of what was most certainly going to erupt into a much larger battle. Again he looked at Otto, mentally pleading with the man to stop this; the last thing he needed was a family spat to add to his already dire situation. Yet….when his gaze met his former boss's this time around, there was this distinctive gleam in each of his icy blue pupils; as if challenging _him_ to resolve the mother/daughter argument on his own.

_You vant help?_ His eyes seemed to say, burning with distinctive German pride, _Zhen prove to me you deserve it._

Biting back a groan, Francis retaliated with a look of his own: _Fine._

"Gretchen…." He began, struggling to sit up, "….Lillian…._please_. Please just….just _stop_ this! Fighting never solves anything…." His voice lowered an octave as a pang of familiar pain struck his heart "….no matter _what_ the cause may be…."

His hands, resting on his thighs, curled into fists. At least Otto couldn't accuse him of bad acting.

"Francis…." Gretchen murmured, tearing her eyes away from her daughter in a mixture of shock and shame"….I am so sorry. I….I don't know vhat came over me."

Ignoring the sickening feeling swirling around in his stomach, Francis gave her a forgiving smile. "It's….it's okay." Egged by curiosity, he stole a glance at Lillian, who—not surprisingly—remained scowling. Nevertheless, something strikingly similar to regret flickered in her dark eyes.

It was a start. Enough, anyway, to provoke the next words out of the girl's mouth: "How did you get out of there, exactly? The asylum, I mean."

That sickening feeling pushed itself up his throat. Figures she'd want to know more. "I…." he shivered, then shook his head. "To be perfectly honest, I'm not really sure. Everything happened so fast, it's kind of a blur." Wincing at the surge of pain in his forearm, he brought a hand up to his head, massaging his temples as if deep in thought. "I remember something about the back of a truck….or two….but…." His shoulders slumped. "I just don't know. After a while, my mind went totally blank. It was easier to keep going that way, you know? Not to think about bodily needs and all that."

This time, Lillian shook _her_ head, shifting her weight so she stood in an angled position. "Because _that_ worked _so_ well." She scoffed, "Tell me, was the whole 'almost dying' thing part of your plan?"

The mental barriers containing Francis' temper finally snapped. "Look, you little _bitch_!" He shrieked, "I don't know _what_ your problem is, but you have no right whatsoever to talk to me like that! No, that wasn't_ part of my plan_—so what? I'd rather risk dropping dead from fatigue instead of spending the rest of my life in a damn straight jacket! But I suppose you in all your hormone-driven glory know _everything_ there is to know about my—"

"_Halt die Klappe_!"

And just as suddenly as it had began, the heated debate between Francis and Lillian ceased; an eerie silence overtaking the two as they stared in shock—or in Francis' case, utter terror—at a fuming Otto. In his fury, the German man seemed nearly twice his size; his round face flushed scarlet and his beady eyes gleaming like the sharp edge of a sword. Like King Kong himself, Otto puffed out his chest, making the possibility of dying right then and there not unlikely to the petrified blond.

Why oh why couldn't he learn to keep his big mouth shut?

Yet, instead of tearing Francis limb from limb, Otto's dark gaze shot to his daughter. "_Lillian_." He demanded, his bushy eyebrows knitting into his forehead, "Take Shnite and Bonen out for a valk. Your mozzer have some zhings ve need to discuss vith _zhis man _here."

And now he was being de-personalized. Dare he ask how this day could get any worse?

"Y-Yes sir." Lillian replied hastily, effectively pulling Francis from his train wreck of thought. Already halfway to the door, the teen stuck her her thumb and index finger in her mouth, whistling sharply. No sooner had she done that than the two yipping, spotted fur balls that were Lillian's shih tzus scampering into the room. "Come on, guys." She whispered, stooping over to clip their leashes to their harnesses, before opening and slipping out the door without a word.

The remaining three people waited quietly until Lillian was well out of earshot before proceeding with the next….order of business.

Heart pounding so hard he felt as though it would burst, Francis kept his eyes glued to his lap, summoning every ounce of willpower he had to prevent himself from collapsing under the German couples' harsh gazes. If Otto didn't personally end his life, was almost certain this pressure and anticipation whilst waiting for his fate _would_.

From somewhere behind him, the sharp thud of very large boots against the wooden floor sounded; long, slow strides that grew slightly in volume until their predictable—yet alarming all the same—halt directly in front of him.

_Oh shit oh shit oh shit oh shit!_

"Francis," Otto growled, "You have some nerve, coming here."

"I—"

"_Look at me_ vhen I am speaking to you."

Though it went against his gut instinct, Francis obeyed. "I….I know." He squeaked, becoming increasingly uncomfortable. His body was far from recovered, even with twenty-four hours rest, and he knew that.

He also knew, despite the emotions threatening to strangle him, he had to keep a level head—had to play his cards right, unless he wanted to make this already horrible predicament worse.

This was, after all, his last chance. "Otto…." He started, unable to hear himself over his hammering heart, "I'm….I'm sorry…."

"As you should be!" The German man cut in, voice just below a shout, "You have caused my family nozhing but trouble!"

_**Nothing**__ but trouble?_ He thought, but aloud he simply said, "I know. But…."

Again, Otto interrupted. "You are rude, untrustvorthy….and now I hear you are a murderer!" At his sides, Otto's hands were fidgeting, as if unsure what to do with themselves. "Tell me, Francis, _vhat_ vere you zhinking, coming—"

Now, it was Francis' turn to interrupt. "For the last time, I'm _not_ a murderer!" He cried, throwing away all logic and displaying his heart on his sleeve. "Look, _I'm sorry_ I mistook that….whatever it was….for an ATM machine! _I'm sorry_ you almost went bankrupt. _I'm sorry_ I called your daughter a bitch and lost my temper. But I would never—_ever_—kill the woman I love! And" he added, tears of desperation shining in his eyes, "I _know_ you know that!"

Neither Otto nor Gretchen said a word, perhaps allowing the distraught blond a moment to grieve and collect himself.

After a moment or two of wallowing in misery, Francis heard a muffled whisper escape Gretchen's mouth. "Otto…." He thought he heard her say, lightening his breathing in order to hear better, "_Look_ at him…."

"I _am_ looking at him." Otto whispered back, his voice far more muddled than his wife's.

"Zhis boy needs our help. He needs _your_ help."

"But—" the German man tried, clearly aware he was losing the argument, "He—"

Gretchen snorted. "_He_ is being tried for somezhing he did not do! Blamed for a crime he did not commit! _Zhat_ is vhat he is involved vith right now!"

Otto opened his mouth to comeback Gretchen, but no words came out. Beauty, it seemed, had triumphed over the beast….._Or fish_, Francis speculated, watching Otto's gaping mouth open and close several times. Gretchen, recognizing her victory, planted her hands firmly on her hips and stared her man firmly in the face.

"Now," she half-suggested, half-ordered, "_Vhat_ are you going to do about Francis?"

Not in a position to do much else, Otto gave in to defeat and sighed. "I know I know." He mumbled, turning his head to face the now perplexed blond. Taking a deep breath, he straightened his previously sagging shoulder, and said slowly, "Francis, you know as vell as I zhat zhings have been a bit….rocky lately….but I am villing to set zhat aside for a vhile and help you out."

Francis' eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. "W-what?" He stammered, a grin fighting to form on his previously pursed lips, "Otto that's….that's gre—"

"Howevair!" The very large and now slightly embarrassed man cut in, "Zhis is no free deal!"

Of _course_ there had to be a catch. Damn, stupid luck.

"As soon as you are vell enough to pull your own veight, zhat is exactly vhat you vill be doing, understand?"

Francis gulped, but oddly enough, it wasn't from fear. "Y-yes sir!" He replied, unable to hide a smirk as it carved its way onto his face. He paused, absorbed, for a moment, in the unfamiliar wave of relief sweeping through him and slowly but surely washing away the panic and anxiety that had plagued him for so long. He looked up at the German couple: sweet and—as of right now—proud Gretchen, standing in as his ace in the hole—the mother he wished for as a child but never had. And Otto, the man whom he both feared and respected. Not many people out there would be willing to give a fugitive like himself a second chance, even if the decision was reinforced by his wife. Let alone allow—or force but it didn't really matter—him to resume his old job; the job he never really wanted but was pretty damn good at.

Sitting there, reflecting like he was, was…. more than Francis could handle. Whispering a heartfelt, but nevertheless unsteady "Thank you," he lost his composure, and began to cry; succumbing to the foreign but wonderful feeling of humane treatment. Of hospitality. Of _friendship_.

For the first time in a long time, everything finally seemed like it was going to be all right.

**Oh Francis….if you only knew what I had in store for you….**

***ahem* Anyway….This chapter is a bit different than the others, I think. Ah well. I hope you guys liked it all the same.**

**And I apologize for Lillian. I assure you, her story will be revealed later on.**

**Same with Francis' little outbursts: while he's not crazy, you gotta understand the man is under a lot of stress XD**

**Ah well….stay tuned for the next chapter!**

**'Halt die Klappe' means 'shut up' in German (According to online sources, so it may be incorrect.)**


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